The Emancipation Car :: :: University of Virginia Library

I was educated to believe that it was all right for us to be slaves, though a native of Morgan County, Ohio, I pretended to believe it too; and when quite a boy, would ridicule the Abolitionists as fools, devils, mischief-makers, &c., whenever I was in the presence of my old Boss or the Anti-Abolitionists. Persecutions in 1836 against Abolitionists became quite prevalent, and the man that dared to say “colored men,” “colored ladies and gentlemen,” “Mr.” or “Mrs.” to colored people, did it at the risk of a coat of rotten eggs, or a fancy ride on an ugly rail, or to be dressed up with a shirt of tar and feathers for Sunday, even in Morgan County, but my heart secretly moaned all the time and said “Lord what can be done for my people.” As soon as I could write, which was not until

I was past twenty-one years old, a spirit of poetry, (which was always in me,) became revived, and seemed to waft before my mind horrid pictures of the condition of my people, and something seemed to say, “Write and sing about it— you can sing what would be death to speak.” So I began to write and sing. The first piece I wrote and sang in public, was for our School Exhibition on “Big Bottom,” in 1842; it was “Hail thou sweet and Welcome day,” found in this book, with a few changes made in 1846, to suit a West Indian Emancipation Celebration occasion.

In the Appendix will be found several of my productions which were written after the publication of my little book. The reader will find many things in this little work, especially the Colored people, which will bring to their memory, in all times to come, vivid pictures of the great Babylon of America, American Slavery, one of the ungodliest institutions that ever disgraced the history of a country since the creation of the world.

He will also find many historical facts that are worthy of preservation. He will also see flashes of prophecies, pointing to events which came to pass, and which passed before my mind while writing them, but I did not comprehend their exact meaning, but used them as poetic figures, though they seemed to me to be facts.

In presenting this little work to the public, I feel it to be my duty to guard the minds of the

people against an error, which is now prevalent among many.

Those who have read my composition, who hove had no history of my life, suppose that I have been a “Slave;” but this is not the case. I am a man, free-born—educated (superficially) in the Oberlin Collegiate Institute, Lorain County, Ohio.

I have often thought, that, if I had been well disciplined under the lash, that this experience would have so assisted my natural poetical endowments, that my style, taste, and spirit of writing would have been much more interesting. But when the public understands, that I was bound out when quite young, served under a hard master until twenty-one years old; after which, I got all the education that I now enjoy, (which is no more than a common English education,) the considerate portion of the community will excuse my simple figures and plain, undressed mode, remembering that I do not profess to be a Byron, Milton, Pollock, or Young.

In my selections of “Airs,” I have gathered such as are popular, and extensively known. Many superstitious persons, and perhaps, many good conscientious, well-meaning Christians, will denounce and reject the work on account of the “Tunes,” but my object has been to change the flow of those sweet melodies (so often disgraced by Comic Negro Songs, and sung by our own people,) into a more appropriate and useful channel; and I hope that my motives may be

duly appreciated; and that this little work, (the first of the kind in the United States,) may find a resting place and a hearty welcome in every State, community and family in the Union, and as far as a friend to the slave may be found.

This work is all original, though several of the songs have been re-published several times, under other names, and by other persons, they are my own Composition.

I am truly yours for God and Humanity, J. Mc. C. SIMPSON, Elder in Charge of the Zion Baptist Church, Zanesville, Ohio,

THE EMANCIPATION CAR.

Here comes Emancipation's Car,
I hear the bell resound;
Her head's towards the Northern Star,
For Canada she's bound;
Her steam is up—she's rightly manned—
Her engine new and bright;
And I am bound to leave the land
Of slavery to-night.

So hie me away to Canada,
That cold and dreary shore—
Oh! carry me back to Alabama,
To Alabama no more—
Oh! carry me back to Alabama,
To Alabama no more.

The laws against the Fugitive
Are very hard they say,
But I must venture, die or live—
I will not be a slave;

She bribes the Marshal with a TEN,
If I'm returned alive,
But should I prove myself a MAN,
He only gets a Five.

So hie me away, &c.

I oft have heard old master tell,
Of freedom's land before;
And why should I in slavery dwell,
On Alabama's shore?
When I am dead and gone to rest,
I want my bones to lie
Beneath the soil which God has blessed,
With life and Liberty.

So hie me away, &c.

I've served my master all my days,
Without a dime's reward;
And now I'm forced to run away,
To flee the lash, abhorr'd,
The hounds are baying on my track,
The master's just behind,
Resolved that he will bring me back,
Before I cross the line.

So hie me away, &c.

There, something speaks within my breast;
The voice cannot be hushed!
Though this poor body is oppressed,

The spirit can't be crushed.
It speaks and tells me, “rise and live,
And show thyself a man.
The soul which God to you has given,
The Tyrant ne'er can brand.”

So hie me away, &c.

Farewell to Alabama's shore,
Farewell to the galling yoke,
I ne'er expect to wear thee more;
Thou art forever broke.
Farewell to master, friends, and foes,
Your face no more I'll see:
Put on the steam—and off she goes;
Huzzah for Liberty!

So hie me away to Canada,
That cold and dreary shore,
Oh! carry me back to Alabama,
To Alabama no more—
Oh! carry me back to Alabama
To Alabama no more.

THE LITTLE MAID ON HER WAY.

[_]

Air—Buy a Broom:

O! say little maid, whither now are you going—
Whither now are you going this cold winter day?

I'm bound for the North, where the cold winds are blowing,
For I was a slave, and am running away.

O! say little maiden how far have you traveled—
How far have you traveled this cold winter day?
I have come full ten miles, over mountains and valley,
And I must be making quick speed on my way.

O! say little maid, fear ye not you will perish—
Fear ye not you will perish this cold winter day?
I'm cold, it is true—but a hope I do cherish,
That I shall soon warm me in old Canada.

O! say little maid will you not have some biscuits,
To keep you from starving this cold winter day?
I have some old crust which I stole from my mistress,
And this will support me awhile on the way.

O! say little maid, have you no one to guard you?
And how can you travel this cold winter day?
The Lord is my pilot, he's always beside me,
And this makes me happy and blithe on the way.

O! say little maid, can you no longer tarry—
Can you no longer tarry this cold winter day?
O no! I'm afraid that some wretch will betray me;
I'll bid you farewell, and will hast on my way.

FREEDOM'S CAUSE.

[_]

Air—“We won't give up the Bible.”

Our cause is just and holy—
To it we'll ever stand:
Our right to life and liberty—
Is all that we demand.
Our sword is truth—our shield is love—
Our breast-plate faith and prayer—
Our armour is the fear of God,
And we the foe will dare;
Our cause is just and holy,
To it we'll ever stand.

Our cause is just and holy;
And backed by power divine;
To trust in God's own sacred word
Our hearts are well inclined,
And it shall be our pride and boast
To sink the Gospel truth.
Into the hearts of all our foes—
The aged and the youth,
Our cause is just and holy,
To it we'll ever stand.

Our cause is just and holy—
Our country's good at stake:
We wish to pull down Tyranny,
And laws of justice make;
And this we fancy not to do
By shedding human blood;
Our veins shall never drain to make
A mighty crimson flood.
Our cause is just and holy,
To it we'll ever stand.

Our cause is just and holy—
We feel it in our veins;
For Jesus came all men to save
From misery, sin and chains.
His blood ran free on Calvary
For every human soul.
From Palestine to Africa—
It saves from pole to pole,
Our cause is just and holy,
To it we'll ever stand.

Our cause is just and holy,
And we are not ashamed
To sing it on the Mountain tops,
And sound it o'er the main,
That we are friends of Liberty
That attribute of love—
As God created all men free,
We freedom's cause will move.
Our cause is just and holy,
To it we'll ever stand.

Our cause is just and holy
For it we'll ever pray,
Although we may not see the good
We do till judgment day.
We'll plead our cause where e'er we go;
Till all mankind shall see;
And Slavery's friends shall feel and own
That God made all men free.
Our cause is just and holy
To it we'll ever stand.

TO THE WHITE PEOPLE OF AMERICA.

[_]

Air—“Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground.

O'er this wide extended country,
Hear the solemn echoes roll,
For a long and weary century,
Those cries have gone from pole to pole;
See the white man sway his sceptre,
In one hand he holds the rod—
In the other hand the Scripture,
And says that he's a man of God.

Hear ye that mourning?
'Tis your brothers' cry!
O! ye wicked men take warning,
The day will come when you must die.

Lo! Ten thousand steeples shining
Through this mighty Christian land,
While four millions slaves all pining

And dying 'neath the Tryant's hand.
See the “blood-stained” Christian banner
Followed by a host of saints (?)
While they loudly sing Hosannah,
We hear the dying slave's complaints:

Hear ye that mourning?
Anglo-sons of God,
O! ye Hypocrites take warning,
And shun your sable brothers blood.

In our Legislative members,
Few there are with humane souls,
Though they speak in tones of thunder
'Gainst sins which they cannot control,
Women's rights and annexation,
Is the topic by the way,
While poor Africa's sable nation
For mercy, cry both by night and day.
Hear ye that mourning?
'Tis a solemn sound,
O! ye wicked men take warning,
For God will send his judgment down.

Tell us not of distant Island—
Never will we colonize:
Send us not to British Highlands,
For this is neither just nor wise,
Give us equal rights and chances,
All the rights of citizens—
And as light and truth advances,
We'll show you that we all are men.

Hear ye that mourning?
'Tis your brothers sigh,
O! ye wicked men take warning,
The judgment day will come by and by.

DEDICATED TO ------, AN AGED PIONEER WHO NOW RESIDES NEAR CHATHAM, C. W.

[_]

Air—“The Low-Back'd Car.”

Old Master used to say,
If ever I run away,
I'd starve and freeze,
And die by degrees,
If I went to Canada;
But fifteen years ago, or more,
My home I did forsake,
And left for Queen Victoria's shore,
Across the dancing Lake.

Chorus—

And I never have rued the day—
I never have rued the day—
I never, no never, no never, no never,
Since I have run away.

[Rept. Chorus

I struggled for three long years,
To conquer my doubts and fears,
My heart it would quail
And my courage would fail,
Whenever the hour drew near.
“I can but perish if I go”—
“I'll venture now, said I;

“For If I tarry here, I know”
A slave I'll live and die—

Chorus—

And I never have rued the day, &c,

The road appeared dark and long—
My enemies thick, and strong—
I knew my sad lot
If I failed in my plot,
As I traveled the journey alone.
But I resolved in the strength of God,
When I left Old Tennessee,
To lose the last drop of my warm heart's blood,
But what I would be free.

Chorus—

And I never have rued the day, &c.

I found no fault with my fare—
I had plenty of clothes to wear—
Had plenty of food
And that which was good,
And was free from incumbering care.
But there was something still behind,
My mind did constant crave—
I thought it never was designed
That I should be a slave.

Chorus—

And I never have rued the day, &c.

The climate is cold, 'tis true,
The country rough and new
And too near the pole
For any poor soul

That has no desire “to do.”
But I have worked both day and night,
And bought myself a home,
Where I can enjoy my equal rights,
And I find I'm not alone.

Chorus—

And I never have rued the day—
I never have rued the day—
I never, no never, no never, no never,
I'm glad I run away.

[Repeat.

SONG OF THE “ALIENED AMERICAN.”

[_]

Air—“America.”

My country, 'tis of thee,
Dark land of Slavery,
In thee we groan.
Long have our chains been worn—
Long has our grief been borne—
Our flesh has long been torn,
E'en from our bones.

The white man rules the day—
He bears despotic sway,
O'er all the land.
He wields the Tyrant's rod,
Fearless of man or God,
And at his impious nod,
We “fall or stand.”

O! shall we longer bleed?

Is there no one to plead
The black man's cause?
Does justice thus demand
That we shall wear the brand,
And raise not voice nor hand
Against such laws?

No! no! the time has come,
When we must not be dumb,
We must awake.
We now “Eight Millions Strong,”
Must strike sweet freedom's song
And plead ourselves, our wrong—
Our chains must break.

ANNIVERSARY.

[_]

Air—“Sweet Birds are Singing.”

The morning is breaking,
And daylight appears—
And daylight appears;
And Freemen are waking
With many loud cheers—
With many loud cheers.
Come, freemen, sing with me,
Merrily—merrily—
Come, freemen, sing with me,
Happy, happy day.

Sweet music is swelling,
It floats on the breeze—

It floats on the breeze,
As daylight is smiling
O'er land and the seas—
O'er land and the seas:
Come, freemen, join with me,
Merrily—merrily—
Come, freemen, join with me,
Merry, merry day.

The sons of Jamaica,
Are now on their way—
Are now on their way,
While daylight is breaking,
To join in the lay—
To join in the lay;
Come, freemen, join with me,
Cheerily—cheerily,
Come, freemen, join with me,
Sing a merry lay.

Sound ye the trumpet
From mountain to sea—
From mountain to sea.
From daylight 'till sunset.
We'll keep up the glee—
We'll keep up the glee.
Sing, freemen, sing with me,
Cheerily—cheerily,
Sing, freemen, sing with me,
Happy, happy day.

[Just before the day was breaking]

[_]

The following lines are drawn from a dreary journey of a young lady, from Kentucky, in 1852. Her traveling name, (which I gave her,) was “Catherine Simpson,” and to her memory, I compose these lines, suited to the Air—“The Last Rose of Summer.”

Just before the day was breaking,
'Twas between three and four,
A weary young maiden
Gently knocked at the door.
I beheld her dark features
As she drew near the fire—
Whence came this poor creature?
I began to inquire.

Oh! where art thou going
This dark lonesome night?
See the dark clouds are gathering,
Do they not thee affright?
O no! said the stranger,
With tears in her eye—
They will shield me from danger—
My Master's close by.

I'm a slave, and am going
To the land of the free;
And my Master's pursuing—
He is close after me.
O, hide me, I pray thee,
'Till the dark shade of night,

And do not betray me,
For my Master's in sight.

Four and twenty long hours,
I have wandered alone,
'Mid the wild, tangled flowers,
Far away from my home;
The wild beasts of the forest,
Howled round me all night;
Their wild mingled chorus,
My soul did affright.

To the land of Victoria
I am now on my way,
I have trials before me,
Both by night and by day,
O, can'st thou not hide me,
'Till the day passes by?
Let no evil betide me,
For my Master is nigh.

I will be thy defender
(I exclaimed, as I arose,)
'Till the sun's glorious splendor,
Bids adieu to your foes,
Then the “Steam Car” will hie thee,
To thy far destined home,
There the hounds cannot find thee—
There the lash dare not come.

ALL THINGS SPEAK.

[_]

Air—“All is well.”

Hark! Hark!! A voice! A voice is loudly sounding—
Free the slave—free the slave!
Sweet freedom's voice—o'er hill and dale resounding—
Free the slave—free the slave!
All nature shrinks the lash to hear—
The crimson dye—the groans and tears
All speak in accents loud and clear
Free the slave—free the slave!

Slack! slack your hands! ye tyrants cease your folly;
Free the slave—free the slave!
Your brother's blood cries to the Lord Most Holy,
Free the slave—free the slave!
Your hand is smitten with disgrace—
Your laws are rigid, vile and base,
And conscience speaks from every breast
Free the slave—free the slave!

Call back those hounds! O! let their boys no longer,
Grieve the slave—grieve the slave!
Let not your horns in dismal tones of thunder
Grieve the slave—grieve the slave!
The fetters break—your bondman's free;

And let the song of “Liberty,”
Re-echo o'er the land and sea;
I am free—I am free!

Behold your banner gently, gently floating
O'er the slave—o'er the slave!
Your Eagle spreads his golden wings exulting
O'er the slave—o'er the slave!
Three millions slaves are in his grasp,
And millions more he longs to clasp,
But God forbid his power shall last,
Free the slave—free the slave!

Herald go forth; and may success attend you
Free the slave—free the slave!
And may the God of righteousness defend you.
Free the slave—free the slave!
Put on your armor—make it bright,
And draw the bow with holy might,
And speed the arrows in their flight.
Free the slave—free the slave!

THE SLAVE GIRL.

[_]

Air—“Long, Long Ago.

This world to me at the best is but base—
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Here I am sunk in the deepest disgrace—
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Here I'm forsaken and left all alone;

Far from my country, my friends and my home;
Far o'er the billows from all have been borne;
Here is no rest, here is no rest.

Here I must rise at the sound of the horn!
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Go to the field e'en before day is dawned!
Here is no rest, Here is no rest!
Here I must labor and toil as a beast,
And when I murmer my task is increased;
No one to pity, no arm to release;
Here is no rest, here is no rest.

Here I must toil at the end of the lash;
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
And dare not shrink from its deep painful gash;
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Heart-broken daughter of grief and despair,
No one to help me my burthen to bear—
No one on earth for my soul who will care.
Here is no rest, here is no rest.

Here I'm a slave, and a slave must remain;
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Winter and summer to me are the same;
Here is no rest, here is no rest!
Here I must labor though tempests may blow,
Toil without mantle through frosts and through snow;
O tell me when shall my tears cease to flow?
Here is no rest, here is no rest.

Could I but soar to those mansions on high!
There, there is rest, there, there is rest!
There in the arms of my Savior to lie;
There, there is rest, there, there is rest!
Speed fleeting moments and bear me away!
Free my sad soul from this prison of clay,
Far from this wilderness bear me away!
There, there is rest, there is rest.

ALBERT MORRIS.

[_]

Air—“We're traveling home to Heaven above.”

I'm going to see the old North Star,
Will you go, will you go?
They tell me “freedom” reigns up there
Will you go, will you go?
I've long resolved with all my heart,
This very night to make a start,
From chains forever to depart;
Will you go, will you go?

I'm going to see Victoria's face;
Will you go, will you go?
At her right hand I'll find a place;
Will you go, will you go?
Her arms of love extend to me,
She says, “my son, I'll set you free,”
“A slave no more, you e'er shall be,”
Come away, come away!

I'm going to see Old Johnny Bull;

Will you go, will you go?
And drink a draught at freedom's pool;
Will you go, will you go?
Old Johnny long has been our friend,
And will be until time shall end;
To black men, aid he'll always lend,
Will you go, will you go?

I'm going to hear the cannon roar,
Will you go, will you go?
Upon Lake Erie's northern shore,
Will you go, will you go?
I cannot stay—I must be gone;
I hear the rollingsfife and drum,
And Queen Victoria bids me come;
Let me go, let me go?

I'm going to see my friends once more,
Will you go, will you go?
Who long ago have gone before;
Will you go, will you go?
O, what a shouting there will be,
When we each other's face shall see,
In that blest “Land of Liberty,”
I must go, I must go.

Old tyrant Master, fare you well;
I must go, I must go.
In chains no longer I can dwell;
I must go, I must go.
I've been your servant many a day,
I've served without one cent of pay;

And now I'm bound to run away;
I must go, I must go.

I hope the time will not be long,
I must go, I must go.
When I shall join that happy throng,
I must go, I must go.
I've many friends to Chatham gone,
And many more will follow on—
To master, lash and “Negro Gong,”
Fare you well, fare you well.

THE VOICE OF SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND, NOMINALLY FREE.

[_]

Air—“Marseilles Hymn.

Come, friends, awake! The day is dawning,
'Tis time that we were in the field;
Shake off your fears and cease your yawning,
And buckle on your sword and shield,
And buckle on your sword and shield,
The enemy is now advancing.
The Tyrant-Host is great and strong;
But ah, their reign will not be long,
We shrink not at their war-steeds prancing.
Stand up, stand up my boys,
The battle field is ours;
Fight on! Fight on! all hearts resolved,
To break the Tyrant's power.

The men of God have quite deserted

The battle-field and gone their way;
The world will never be converted,
While tyrants bear despotic sway;
While tyrants bear despotic sway;
The infidels are quite astounded,
And Atheists do speechless stand,
To see God's image wear the brand,
While with God's word, they thus surrounded.
Stand up! Stand up! my braves,
The army ne'er forsake;
March on! March on! all hearts resolved,
The tyrant's power to break.

We boast not of our might in number;
Our weapons are not carnal steel;
The weight of arms does not encumber
Our progress in the battle field;
Our progress in the battle field;
But truth, the mighty arm of power,
Shall smite the great Goliah down,
And pluck from Monarch's head the crown
Which o'er our race has long been towering.
Be brave! Be brave my boys!
The battle ne'er give o'er.
March on! March on! all hearts resolved
To leave the ranks no more.

'Tis true that we are few in number,
And yet, those few are brave and strong,
Like Athen's mighty sons of thunder,
Upon the plains of Marathon;

Upon the plains of Marathon.
With courage bold, we'll take our station,
Against the mighty host of whites,
And plead like men for equal rights,
And thus exalt our fallen Nation.
“To arms! To arms! my braves,”
The sword of truth unsheath.
March on! March on! all hearts resolved,
On Liberty or death.

SOBER REFLECTIONS.

[_]

Air—“Lilly Dale.”

When the sun goes down, and the rosy light
'Gins to fade over the western hills;
Then the slave returns to a dreary night,
While deep sorrow his bosom fills.
O, Freedom! Sweet Freedom!
Hear his mid-night cry;
I would give this world,
Could I once be free;
But a slave I must live and die.

I must now lie down on my cabin floor,
There to rest my weary bones,
With not e'en a mantle to spread me o'er,
And my pillow a cold rough stone.
O, Freedom! Sweet Freedom!
How I weep for thee;
I must now lie down

On the cold, damp ground,
But there's no repose for me.

My wife and children have all been sold,
And their faces no more I'll see;
The Auctioneer, for the shining gold,
Sold them down to old Tennessee.
O, Freedom! Sweet Freedom!
How thine echoes swell—
For thee I pray,
Both night and day,
My deep sorrow no tongue can tell.

They can find no crime that I've ever done,
That I thus am bound in chains;
For to have my daughters, wife and sons,
Borne away to the southern plains.
O, Freedom! Sweet Freedom!
How I long for thee;
I would give this world,
Was it all my own,
If the bondmen could all go free.

See the eagle poised on his golden wings,
'Mid the thirteen darling Stars;
How he soars on high, and so sweetly sings
Of the joys that we all ought to share,
Sweet Freedom! O, Freedom!
Sweet Freedom dear;
While the white man sings
'Neath thy balmy wings,
I must die here in deep despair.

THE DYING SLAVE.

[_]

Air—“The man for me.”

I've heard them talk of a happy home,
A land where all are free;
A land where slavery is unknown—
“Of Life and Liberty.”
I've often thought if I should live,
That happy land I soon would see;
But now I'm going to Heaven.

And there I shall be free;
And there I shall be free;
And there I shall be free.

O! what a joyous sight appears:
Far, far beyond the skies!
What heavenly sounds salutes my ears;
A song that never dies.
I see ten thousand spirits bright,
Sweet angels clothed in garments white,
And none are fetters wearing:

O! there is Liberty;
O! there is Liberty;
O! there is Liberty.

My father dwells in Georgia State,
My mother dwells up there;
I see her on the pearly gates,
A crown of life she wears.

I saw her die beneath the lash:
I counted every bleeding gash,
But now no scars she's wearing.

She's happy and she's free;
She's happy and she's free;
She's happy and she's free.

A few more fleeting moments here,
And then my toils are o'er;
The hammer of the Auctioneer
Will grieve my soul no more.
I'm going to join that happy throng,
Beyond the sound of “Negro Gongs;”
O! sweet emancipation.

My soul will then be free;
My soul will then be free;
My soul will then be free.

I'm going where Christ, my Savior lives,
Where friends will part no more;
A seat at his right hand he gives
To all his suffering poor.
There, souls by color are not known,
Around God's bright eternal throne;
There, all are “free and equal.”

O! that's the place for me;
O! that's the place for me;
O! that's the place for me;

I've suffered long enough below!
I would no longer stay;
My Savior calls, and I must go,
And leave this mortal clay;
My yoke and fetters, chains and all,
With this poor body here must fall,
And I'll sing Hallelujah!

For grace has made me free;
For grace has made me free;
For grace has made me free.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

[_]

Air—“Alabama Again.”

As I sat one evening in sweet meditation,
My mind not encompassed by land or by sea;
I soon was amused by a sweet conversation,
Of Nature, while boasting herself to be free.

“I am free,” said the stream, while the chrystaline fountain
Came dancing its bubbles along by my feet;
“I was free from my birth, and I came from the mountain,
And now I am going the old ocean to greet.”

“I am ‘free,’” said the fish, “I can catch at the bubble,
And if there a worm should happen to be,

I make him my supper, and it costs me no trouble,
For God has created me happy and free.

‘We are free,” said the Nightingales, joining their chorus;
(While over me gently they poised on the wing;)
Our parents and kinsmen were all free before us,
And we will the anthems of liberty sing.

“I am free,” said the breeze, loaded down with sweet odour,
As it through the willows came rustling by.
“I can pass when I please, and return at my leisure;
The power of monarchs or kings I defy.

“I am free,” said the bee, as from flower to flower,
It buzzed in pursuit of its evening store.
“I am happy though life is to me but an hour;
God gives me my freedom, and I ask for no more.

“I am free,” said the lightning, while rending the Heavens;
A sceptre I sway, over land and the sea;
To kill and to cure, to me it is given;
I act my own pleasure, I'm mighty and free.

Then, shouted all nature, with loud exultation;
The voice was re-echoed o'er mountain and plain;
I am free as my Maker—I'm queen of all nations,
But poor suffering mortals I love to sustain.

PART II.

The white man united his voice in the chorus,
With jarring and discord, he sang to the glee.
Of heroes that fought and who bled long before us,
To purchase their offspring such sweet liberty.

I would have united in praise and devotion,
But ere a long tear could escape from my eye,
I thought of my brethren, a down-trodden nation,
Poor bondsmen, like brutes, they must suffer and die.

My soul I exclaimed, and is God thus ordaining,
From angels and nature perpetual praise;
While Africa's sons are in bondage complaining,
And dare not their voice to His Majesty raise?

Will not the Almighty descend in great power,
And bid the poor slave from captivity go?
Will he not his vengeance on slave-holders shower,
Until as a God they His power shall know?

Yea! now! even now is the “day-star” arising;
The morning of freedom now dawns in the East.
The sun which illumins the eastern horizon,
The captive from bondage, will shortly release.

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE WILDERNESS.

[_]

Air—“Go to Dark Gethsemane.”

Sons and daughters of the free,
You who love the Tyrant's power,
Take a view of slavery,
Go with me one bitter hour;
Turn not from the scene away—
Come along without delay.

Follow to the throne of Grace,
There behold a kneeling pair;
Mark the difference in the face—
One is dark, the other fair.
Now they rise their joys to tell,
“Jesus has done all things well.”

But we must not tarry here;
Follow to the cotton field;
There behold those brothers dear,
Who were at the altar kneeled;
Here the white man tyrant reigns—
Binds his brother down with chains.

See him ply the bloody lash
To his sable brother's frame;
Every stroke he leaves a gash,
Bringing blood from every vein.
None for him can intercede;
Learn like this poor slave to bleed.

Follow to the Auction block,
There this sable brother's wife
Writhes in chains that's firmly locked,
Now she's sold a slave for life!
O! ye men with hearts of steel,
Learn like this poor slave to feel.

Follow on to yonder shed,
There's a fair young female tied
To the beam that's overhead,
While the lash is well applied,
By the minister of God!
Learn like her to bear the rod.

Listen to those doleful sounds;
Let us hasten to the spot!
'Tis the beying negro hounds!

There, their victims they have caught.
See him mangled! hear him cry!
Learn like the poor slave to die.

THE BONDMAN'S HOME.

[_]

Air—“There is a Happy Land.”

We have a happy home,
Far, far away;
Where slavery is not known
In Canada.
Here men have equal rights,
As the blacks, so are the whites,
There like a band of knights,
“All men are free.”

There men protected are
By the Lion's paw;
All equal rights do share,
By a righteous law.
John Bull is the man for me,
He doth set the captive free,
Both on the land and sea,
Free one and all.

There mid the tempests cold,
On that blessed shore;
Are all both young and old,
Who have gone before,

Crying with loudest strains,
Cast your yoke and break your chains,
And from old Georgia's plains,
Come, come away.

THE VOICE ON THE BREEZE.

[_]

Air—“Alabama Again.”

Far, far from the South, where the sugar-cane growing,
And rice-swamps are spreading through valleys and plains,
On every dull breeze, which from that region's blowing.
We hear the sad wail of the slave in his chains.

Here I am a slave and am destined to labor,
And bear all the burthen and heat of the day—
Get food to sustain both myself and my neighbor,
Let what may befall me, I must not say nay.

We're led like the innocent lamb to the slaughter,
Like sheep in the hands of the shearers we're mute;
The white man will sell both our sons and our daughters,

And his sovereign right there's none to dispute'

The white man is driving his base legislation,
And putting in force all his impious plans,
Which tend to degrade our poor sable nation,
And why he thus treats us, we dare not demand.

The morning is dawning, the day-star is rising,
And Africa's sons are beginning to wake;
Our progress to the white man is now quite surprising,
For God is intending our fetters to break.

FOURTH OF JULY IN ALABAMA.

[_]

The following piece is the meditation and feelings of the poor Slave, as he toils and sweats over the hoe and cotton hook, while his master, neighbors, and neighbors' children are commemorating that day, which brought life to the whites and death to the poor African. Air—“America.”

O, thou unwelcome day,
Why hast thou come this way?
Why lingered not?
I watch with restless eye,

Thy moments slowly fly—
Each seems to stop and die—
And leave a “blot.”

Though cannon's loudly roar,
And banners highly soar—
To me 'tis gloom.
Though “lads” and “lasses” white,
With face and spirits bright—
Hail thee with such delight,
With sword and plumes.

I hear the loud huzzas,
Mingled with high applause,
To Washington.
The youth in every street,
Their notes of joy repeat;
While Patriots' names they greet,
For victory won.

Brass bands of music play
Their sweet and thrilling lay,
Which rend the skies;
Old Fathers seem to feel
New animating zeal,
While tones of thunder peal
On every side.

Yet we have got no song.
Where is the happy throng
Of Africa's sons?

Are we among the great
And noble of the State,
This day to celebrate?
Are we the ones?

No! we must sing our songs
Among the Negro Gongs
That pass our doors.
How can we strike the strains,
While o'er those dismal plains,
We're bleeding, bound in chains,
“Dying by scores?

While e'er four million slaves
Remain in living graves,
Can I rejoice,
And join the jubilee
Which set the white man free,
And fetters brought to me?
'Tis not my choice.

O, no! while a slave remains
Bound in infernal chains
Subject to man,
My heart shall solemn be—
There is no song for me,
'Till all mankind are free
From lash and brand.

THE BONDMAN'S CRY.

[_]

Air—“Herdmans Flute.”

When the first faint morning's ray
O'er the hill is breaking,
Loudly thrills the bondman's cry;
Mournful echoes waking.
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!

Lo! they scamper at the call;
For the slaves are bounding;
Now for mercy hear them call
While the lash is sounding.
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!

Now behold the crimson flow
From the gory fountain,
While the slaves with axe and hoe
Climb the rugged mountain.
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!

When the silvery evening star
Sees them homeward stealing,
Listening peasants from afar.
Hear their cries still pealing.
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!
O! Lord; O! Lord; O! Lord!

THE BAND OF THIEVES.

[_]

Air—“In the Sabbath School.”

Who are those who loud declare
All mankind their rights should share;
But the slaves their chains should wear?
'Tis the band of thieves.

Who are those who rule and reign—
Bind the black man down with chain—
Then his prayer and groans disdain?
'Tis the band of thieves.

Who are those who preach and pray
On the Holy Sabbath day;
Yet for slaves have naught to say?
'Tis the band of thieves.

Who are those who whine and sing
Praises to their Heavenly King;
Yet, will call the slave a “thing?”
'Tis the band of thieves.

Who so gentle meek and mild,
Say that they are undefiled;
Yet will steal their brother's child?
'Tis the band of thieves.

Who are those that's free from strife
Would not quarrel for their life,
Yet will sell their brother's wife?
'Tis the band of thieves.

FREEDOM'S CALL.

Come, come to freedom's call—
Old and young, come one and all,
Join now to celebrate
Eighteen hundred and thirty-eight.
Sing, freemen, sing, sing, freemen, sing,
Sing a song, for it wont be long,
'Till the slaves are all set free.

In old Jamaica's Iles,
See the sun of freedom smiles;
Chains are no longer worn,
Despots from their thrones are torn.
Praise, freemen, praise; O praise, &c.,
Praise the Lord, for it was his word
That set the captive free.

Hark! what is this I hear?
A dismal sound salutes my ear.
Groans from the living graves,
Of thirty hundred thousand slaves.
Pray, christians, pray; pray, &c.,
Weep and pray for the glorious day,
When the slaves shall all go free.

Go! go! with one accord—
“Preach my Gospel,” saith the Lord.
Cry on the land and sea,
“God created all men free.”
Preach, ye heralds, preach; preach, &c.,

Preach and pray for the glorious day,
When the slaves shall all go free.

Now in the eastern skies,
See that brilliant light arise;
Darkness is fleeing past—
Slavery's die will soon be cast.
Plead, freemen, plead; plead, &c.,
Plead and pray till the glorious day,
When the slaves shall all go free.

Blow, blow, the trumpet blow,
Round the walls of Jerico—
Loud let the echo sound—
Slavery's walls are tumbling down.
Blow, christians, blow, blow the trumpet blow;
Blow and pray till the glorious day,
When the slaves shall all go free.

THE FUGITIVE IN MONTREAL.

[_]

Air—Dandy Jim.

Come all my brethren, now draw near;
I have a tale to tell to you;
I have escaped the Auctioneers,
Though hard the blood-hounds did pursue.
Far in the South I was a slave,
Where sugar-cane and cotton grows;

My master was a cruel knave,
As everybody may suppose

My old master don't like me,
I begged him so to to set me free;
He swore before he'd let me go,
He'd feed me to the carrion crow.

It is a mode of punishment in the South for certain offences, to hang the offender on a tree, or bind him upon his back and let his carcass hang or lie, until the flesh is devoured by the Carrion-Crow.— They commence their dissection at the eyes, which many times are both plucked out before the sufferer is dead.

One day as I was grinding cane,
My master passed me too and fro;
Says I, what can old master mean?
It's nothing good for me I know.
I caught his eye—he dropped his head.
And stuck his cigar in his mouth,
Ha! ha! says I, old master Ned;
You're going to sell me farther south!

My old master don't like me.

I soon beheld a hard old case—
He was a stranger, too, to me;
He come and stared me in the face,
And says, “my boy I'll set you free.”
That night I lay me on my bed,
But there was no repose for me—
Ten thousand thoughts ran through my head,
And all was about old Tennessee.

My old master don't like me.

I heard old master plainly say,
“Well, mother, I have sold old Sam,
He leaves about the break of day—
I've got one thousand in my hand.”
Thinks I this is my only chance,
For life and death are now at stake;
I gathered up my coat and pants,
And for the North I made a break.

My old master don't like me.

It was a dark and dreary night,
'Bout one o'clock, when all was still;
No stars nor moon to give me light,
And naught to be heard but the whipporwill.
I wandered not to the left nor right,
Though hard it was to find the way;
And just six weeks from that dark night,
I landed safe in Canada.

My old master don't like me,

I have a wife, I know not where;
(At least sometimes I call her mine,)
When last I saw her countenance fair,
She was on her way to Caroline.
I have a son both young and brave,
Who broke the ice some time ago,
And now with me (though not a slave,)
He's safe beneath the Lion's paw.

My old master don't like me.

THE FINAL ADIEU.

[_]

Air—I'm bound to run all night

Come all my brethren now draw near—
Good-bye, Good-bye.
My resolution you shall hear,
I'll soon be on my way.
Last night I heard some spirit say,
Good-bye, Good-bye,
'Tis time to go to Canada,
I'll soon be on my way.

First Voice—
I'm bound to run all night,

Second Voice—
I'm bound to sleep all day,
Let the wind blow high,
Come wet or dry,
I'm bound for Canada.

I've served my time, my cup is full,
Good-bye, Good-bye;

Now I must see old Johnny Bull,
I'll soon be on my way.
When master blows his negro horn,
Good-bye, Good-bye,
He'll find this “darkie” out and gone,
I'll soon be on my way.

I'm bound to run all night,
I'm bound to sleep all day,
Let the wind blow high,
Come wet or dry,
I'm bound for Canada.

When I get on the other shore,
Good-bye, Good-bye,
I'll be a man for evermore,
I'll soon be on my way.
When master comes to look for me,
Good-bye, Good-bye,
He'll find me where “all men are free,”
I'll soon be on my way.

I'm bound to run all night,
I'm bound to sleep all day,
Let the wind blow high,
Come wet or dry,
I'm bound for Canada.

(A voice is heard in a low but distinct tone from the kitchen cellar, uttered by an old house servant.)

“If you get there before I do,”

Good-bye, Good-bye.
“Look out for me I'm coming too,”
I'll soon be on my way.
I have a son that's gone before;
Good-bye, Good-bye,
And I will meet him on that shore,
I'll soon be on my way.

I'm bound to run all night,
I'm bound to sleep all day,
Let the wind blow high,
Come wet or dry,
I'm bound for Canada;

A JUST COMMAND.

[_]

Air—Any C. P. Metre.

Ho! white man, hear the great command,
It echoes loud throughout the land,
To you it loudly calls.
God wrote it with his own right hand,
In living characters it stands
Upon your Government's walls.

Go free the slave, go break the bands
That bind the captive's feet and hands,
Subdue the tyrant's power.
Go, tell the despot, make him see
That God created all men free,

And none are made to cower.

Go, free the slave, ye men of God;
Who say you're washed by pardoning blood,
No longer sleep and dream.
Go, break those stubborn hearts of steel,
And make the base slave-holder feel
That God is judge supreme.

Go, free the slaves, ye valiant sons
Of brave, heroic Washingion,
Who bless your father's graves.
Your father's deeds were justified
For “Equal rights” they bled and died,
And why should we be slaves?

Go, free the slave, the time has come
When men no longer must be dumb;
All men are now involved.
If legislations do not change
The law that binds all men in chains,
“The Union must dissolve.

Go, free the slave, before that cloud
Which gathers thick and thunders loud,
Shall shower its missiles down.
E'er blood for blood shall be the cry,
And slave and slave shall bleed and die
Upon the battle ground.

THE FIRST OF AUGUST IN JAMAICA.

[_]

Air—Hail Columbia.

Hail thou sweet and welcome day,
Let the angels join the lay,
And help us swell the anthems high.
Tune all your golden harps once more,
And strike to notes ne'er struck before,
Yea let the morning's zephry-breeze,
Bear the echo o'er the seas;
Let all the islands bond and free,
Proclaim Jamaica's liberty,
And while we praise the God most high
Who rules the heavens, the earth and sky,
Let Queen Victoria honored be
As mother of our liberty.

To-day we gladly congregate,
A happy band to celebrate
The day we rose from slavery's tomb.
Our clanking chains no more are heard;
Our limbs no more by fetters scarred;
Our backs no more are drenched with blood;
Our tears have ceased our cheeks to flood;
Our wives and children, all so dear,
Are bowed around the altar here.
May Hayti gladly catch the gale,
And Portorico tell the tale;
Let the Atlantic's dancing spray
Salute this new-born happy day.

The knee with sacred awe we bend,
With melting hearts once more to spend
This day in free, unfettered praise;
Our thanks belong to God alone,
For He this mighty work has done.
He saw the tyrant wield the lash;
He counted every bleeding gash;
He heard our children beg for bread
Which o'er our master's table spread,
Our scalding tears in silence shed,
Were coals of fire upon his head.

Wake the psaltry, lute and lyre,
And let us set the world on fire.
And may Jehovah blow the flame,
Till all mankind shall see the light
Of knowledge, liberty and right!
Our hands are clear of human blood;
We bought our liberty from God.
Love, joy and peace are now combined
With freedom's golden chain entwined,
Firm united may we stand,
A happy, free and social band;
Each brother feels his brother's care.
And each his brother's burthen bear.

THE FUGITIVE'S DREAM.

[_]

Air—My old Kentucky Home.

I dreamed last night of my old Kentucky home,
Of my old Kentueky home far away;
I thought old master and I were all alone
In the parlor about the break of day.
I thought old master was weeping like a child,
Said I, O, master, what is wrong?
He heard my voice, and he then began to smile,
Why, said he, what made you stay so long?

Weep no more, old master—
Weep no more, I pray;
I will sing one song at my old Kentucky home,
And return again to old Canada.

He says, my boy come and let us take a walk;
Thinks I, there's something yet behind;
And the first thing I know I'll be standing on the block,
Or be writhing 'neath a sweet “ninety nine,”
Says I, O master, I pray don't punish me!
I'm weary, my journey has been long;
I have been up North where the colored man is free,
Now I'll sing to you a sweet little song,

Weep no more, old master, &c.

I have been up North to that “free and happy land;”
My brothers are all doing well.
They are free from chains, and they do not wear the brand;
And I've something better yet quite to tell;
There we all are men by the power of the law,
Our rights none dare to take away,
When we once get there, 'neath the British Lion's paw,
We can sing sweet music all the day.

Weep no more, old master, &c.

I have served my time at my old Kentucky home;
My wages were nothing every day;
My bread was doubtful, and better I had none,
And you never gave me time e'en to pray.
By and by, one day, as a Trader came along,
He gave me a mighty pleasant look;
Thinks I, “old coon,” I had better now be gone,
For your motives I can read like a book.

Weep no more, old master, &c.

Now the moon shone bright, and the day began to break;
It was time for the Negro Horn to blow;
Then old master says you shall never see the Lake.
You are mine, I shall never let you go;

Then he gave one yell and the hounds began to bey;
He bolted the West parlor door—
I awoke from sleep just as we commenced the fray,
And beheld, 'twas a dream and nothing more.

Weep no more, old master,
Weep no more, I pray;
I will sing one song of my old Kentucky home,
Of my old Kentucky home, far away.

THE SLAVEHOLDER'S REST.

[_]

A Song, illustrative of the true feelings of the slave, when a tyrant Master dies, sung by the body-servant and his field brethren, in a retired negro quarter. Air—Uncle Ned.

Servant—

Come all my brethren, let us take a rest,
While the moon shines so brightly and clear;
Old Master has died and left us all at last,
And has gone, at the bar to appear.
Old master is dead, and lying in his grave,
And our blood will awhile cease to flow,
He will no more trample on the neck of the slave,
For he's gone where the slave-holders go,

Brethren—
Hang up the shovel and the hoe,

Don't care whether I work or no;
Old Master has gone to the slave-holders' rest,
He is gone where they all ought to go.

Servant—

I heard the old doctor say the other night,
As he passed by the dining-room door;
“Perhaps the old gentleman may live through the night,
But I think he will die about four.”
Then old Mistress sent me at the peril of my life
For the parson to come down and pray;
“For,” said she, “your old master is now about to die,”
And said I, “God speed him on his way!”

Brethren—
Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Don't care whether I work or no; &c.

Servant—

At four o'clock this morning, the family were called
Around the old man's dying bed,
And I tell you now I laughed to myself, when I was told
That the old man's spirit had fled.
The children all grieved, and so I did pretend;
The old mistress very nearly went mad,
And the old parson's groans did the Heavens fairly rend;

But I tell you now I felt mighty glad.

Brethren—
Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Don't care whether I work or no, &c.

All join together—

We will no more be roused by the blowing of his horn,
Our backs no longer he will score;
He will no more feed us on cotton seeds and corn
For his reign of oppression is o'er;
He will no more hang our children on the tree,
To be eat by the Carrion Crow;
He will no more sell our wives to Tennessee,
For he's gone where the slave-holders go.

Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Take down the fiddle and the bow, &c.

QUEEN VICTORIA CONVERSING WITH HER SLAVE CHILDREN.

[_]

Air—Come, come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, my sable sons and daughters,
Why linger there
In dark despair?

O come, come away!
On Erie's northern banks I stand,
With open arms and stretched out hands;
From tyrant Columbia's land,
O come, come away?

SLAVES.

O, mother Victoria, why do you thus torment us?
Do you not see
That we're not free,
And can't come away?
We're watched by day and chained by night
Both robbed of liberty and right;
While crushed by the oppressor's might
We can't come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, my sable sons and daughters,
Your galling chains
Now rend in twain
And come, come away.
Here in my province still is room,
And I will give you if you come
A long, free and happy home,
O come, come away!

SLAVES.

The bloodhounds (our guards) surround our whole plantations;

The patrols too
Will us pursue,
We can't come away.
Also our masters and their wives
Sleep on their swords and Bowieknives.
And swear they will take our lives,
We can't come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, my sable sons and daughters,
Fear not those hounds,
Nor master's frowns,
But come, come away.
While dogs and masters are asleep,
Then slily from your cabins creep:
And no more in slavery weep,
O come, come away!

SLAVES.

The journey is long and great the undertaking,
We'll have to go
Through frost and snow,
We can't come away.
The cane-brake and the cotton-field
Must be our shelter and our shield,
And wild beasts are there concealed;
We can't come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, my sable sons and daughters,
Dry up your tears,
Dismiss your fears,
And come, come away.
The Lord will take you by the hand,
And lead you through the forest land;
The beasts are at his command,
O come, come away!

SLAVES.

Our masters we fear will blight our undertaking,
Our very eyes
They'll advertise,
We can't come away.
The northern States though free by name,
Have negro dogs in every range,
Who linger for pocket change;
We can't come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, why will you longer tarry?
The Lord will stand
At your right hand,
O come, come away.
You'll meet with many a northern friend
Who will his best endeavors lend
To speed you on to freedom's land;
O come, come, away.

SLAVES.

O! mother Victoria should we be overtaken;
Our grief untold
Will be ten-fold,
We can't come away.
They'll either hang us on a tree,
Or sell us down to Tennessee
Into endless slavery,
We can't come away.

QUEEN.

O come, come away, I cannot tease you longer;
You need not fear,
John Bull is here—
O come, come away!
The Lion's paw shall guard thy head,
His “shaggy mane” shall be thy bed,
And none upon thy rights shall tread,
O come, come away.

The British Government.

AWAY TO CANADA.

Adapted to the case of Mr. S., Fugitive from Tennessee.

I'm on my way to Canada,
That cold and dreary land;
The dire effects of slavery,

I can no longer stand.
My soul is vexed within me so,
To think that I'm a slave;
I've now resolved to strike the blow
For freedom or the grave.

O righteous Father,
Wilt thou not pity me?
And aid me on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.

I heard Victoria plainly say,
If we would all forsake
Our native land of slavery,
And come across the Lake.
That she was standing on the shore,
With arms extended wide,
To give us all a peaceful home,
Beyond the rolling tide.

Farewell, old master!
That's enough for me—
I'm going straight to Canada,
Where colored men are free.

I heard the old-soul driver say,
As he was passing by,
That darkey's bound to run away,
I see it in his eye.
My heart responded to the charge,
And thought it was no crime;
And something seemed my mind to urge,
That now's the very time.

O! old driver,
Don't you cry for me,
I'm going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.

Grieve not, my wife—grieve not for me,
O! do not break my heart,
For nought but cruel slavery
Would cause me to depart.
If I should stay to quell your grief,
Your grief I would augment;
For no one knows the day that we
Asunder might be rent.

O! Susannah,
Don't you cry for me—
I'm going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.

I heard old master pray last night—
I heard him pray for me;
That God would come, and in his might
From Satan set me free;
So I from Satan would escape,
And flee the wrath to come—
If there's a fiend in human shape,
Old master must be one.

O! old master,
While you pray for me,
I'm doing all I can to reach
The land of Liberty.

Ohio's not the place for me;
For I was much surprised,
So many of her sons to see
In garments of disguise.
Her name has gone out through the world,
Free Labor, Soil, and Men;
But slaves had better far be hurled
Into the Lion's Den.

Farewell, Ohio!
I am not safe in thee:
I'll travel on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.

I've now embarked for yonder shore,
Where man's a man by law,
The vessel soon will bear me o'er,
To shake the Lion's paw.
I no more dread the Auctioneer,
Nor fear the master's frowns,
I no more tremble when I hear
The beying negro-hounds.

O! old Master,
Don't think hard of me—
I'm just in sight of Canada,
Where colored men are free.

I've landed safe upon the shore,
Both soul and body free;
My blood and brain, and tears no more
Will drench old Tennesse.

But I behold the scalding tear,
Now stealing from my eye,
To think my wife—my only dear,
A slave must live and die.

O, Susannah!
Don't grieve after me—
For ever at a throne of grace,
I will remember thee.

THE DYING SLAVE-HOLDER.

[_]

Any C. P. Metre.

O, death! I feel thy icy hand;
Cold drops of sweat now thickly stand
All o'er my trembling frame.
A gulf I see, both dark and drear,
While shrieks of fiends salute my ear,
And fills my soul with pain.

I look no way but what I see
His great Satanic Majesty
On fiery billows stand.
Beneath his feet red liquid rolls,
While all around ten thousand souls
Obey his dread command.

My pulse grows faint and fainter still—
And in my ears the infernal knell
Is tolling every breath.

My parched lips I scarce can move,
I cannot raise my thoughts above;
I'm not prepared for death.

Strange spirits passing too and fro.
Say I must now to judgment go,
To stand before my God.
My mind is filled with doubt and gloom;
O, God! must I now meet my doom,
And feel thy chastening rod?

O! must my guilty soul be hurled
Before the judge of all the world;
All stained with human blood.
I cannot go, I'm not prepared,
Thus to receive my just reward;
In yonder fiery flood.

O, tell me fiends, must all my guilt—
Must all the blood that I have spilt,
Go with me to the bar?
O, yes! O yes! beyond a doubt,
My vital spark is almost out,
My sins will meet me there.

I was deceived—I did not think
That I was standing on the brink
“Of everlasting woe.”
I hoped for many months and years,
But now the monster Death appears,
And I must shortly go.

O! must I meet those helpless slaves
Upon whose back my lash engraved
Those long and numerous scars?
While I shall writhe in endless pain,
And clank my hot and sluggish chains.
They'll wear a crown of stars.

I've killed, wronged and robbed my slaves,
Now I must fill a tyrant's grave—
A tyrant's Hell endure.
Now I must go! my friends, farewell;
I'm going now with fiends to dwell,
For my damnation's sure.

OLD LIBERIA IS NOT THE PLACE FOR ME

[_]

Air—Come to the old gum tree.

Come all ye Colonizationists,
My muse is off to-day—
Come, listen while she's singing
Her soft and gentle lay.
Before she's done you'll understand
Whoever you may be,
That Old Liberia
Is not the place for me.

Although I'm trodden under foot,
Here in America—
And the right to life and liberty,

From me you take away.
Until my brethren in the South
From chains are all set free—
The Old Liberia
Is not the place for me.

Although (as Moses Walker says,)
There, children never cry:
And he who can well act the hog,
For food will never die;
For there the yams and cocoa-nuts,
And oranges are free—
Yet old Liberia
Is not the place for me.

You say it is a goodly land,
Where milk and honey flows,
And every “Jack” will be a man,
Who there may choose to go.
You say that God appointed there
The black man's destiny—
Yet old Liberia
Is not the place for me.

The sweet potatoes there may grow,
And rice in great supplies;
And purest waters ever flow,
Which dazzle quite your eyes.
Though there they have the sugar-cane,
Also the coffee tree,

Yet old Liberia
Is not the place for me.

Three millions slaves are in the South,
And suffering there to-day:
You've gagged them, yes, you've stopped their mouth,
They dare not even pray!
We, who in art and enterprise,
Are trudging on our way,
You'd have us all to colonize,
In old Liberia.

Give joy or grief—give ease or pain,
Take life or friends away;
I deem this as my native land,
And here I'm bound to stay,
“I have a mind to be a man
Among white men and free;
And OLD LIBERIA!
Is not the place for me!”

My muse has chanted now too long,
And spent her breath in vain,
In singing of that “Negro Den,”
Across the raging main.
Our blood is now so far dispersed
Among the Anglo-race,
To rid the country of this curse,
Would need a larger space.

And old Liberia
Is rather far away;
I'd rather find a peaceful home
In old America!

THE FUGITIVE AT HOME.

[_]

Air—Sweet Alice Ben. Bolt.

I stand as a freeman upon the Northern bank
Of old Erie, this fresh water Sea,
And it cheers my very soul
To behold the billows roll,
And to think, like those waves, I am free.

Old master, I pray thee, do not come after me,
For I can't be a slave any more;
I'm beyond the tyrant's law—
Safe beneath the Lion's paw,
And he'll growl if you come near the shore.

I am free as the waters that roll at my feet
Or the sea-gull that glides slowly by,
And no hammer do I hear,
Nor the dread Auctioneer,
And the driver and lash I defy.

Old master and mistress, pray don't grieve after me
Though the waters between us are wide,

Here the atmosphere is pure,
And my freedom secure,
For old JOHNNY is close by my side.

O, don't you remember that tall towering oak,
Where you put on my last “forty-four”
When he bows his lofty head,
To behold where I bled—
O, remember, I'll bleed there no more.

O, don't you remember the promise that you made,
To my old mother's dying request?
That I never should be sold,
Not for silver nor gold,
While the sun rolled from the East to the West.

O! don't you remember as soon as she was dead,
E'en the grass had not grown on her grave?
I was advertised for sale,
And would now be in jail,
Had I not crossed the old dancing waves.

And now while I'm standing upon the water's brink,
I can raise both my hands free from chains.
I disdain the tyrant's power,
From this very hour,
Or the land where the bold tyrant reigns.

THE CHILD'S INQUIRY.

[_]

As much as unfeeling men talk and preach about “negro insensibility,” and as much as slavery dotes upon her mysterious power of blotting out, and annihilating the principles of humanity; yet it is plainly seen that God has planted in the bosom of the black man a quality of his own nature, that the ruthless hand of time and the strong arm of oppression has not, nor cannot extinguish.

The wife of a fair, promising young man was one evening, mysteriously missing. This loving pair had only been united, in their usual way, for five years and eight months; during which time not a cloud of discord had passed between them—nothing had marred their peace, but the thought that they must spend their lives in the midst of groaning and cracking of whips, of which they themselves must share a common fate.

To make the nuptial ties more strong, they had been blessed, as they thought, with a little girl, whose dark eyes, waving hair, high forehead and symmetry of form, satisfied Henry that the child was his.

One pleasant evening, a South Carolinian was seen talking with the master of that happy pair, and coming before the door, they both came to a full halt, while the stranger gazed full in the faces of the three, and, after a few moments

passed in profound silence, he said to the master: “I'll give it.” As they turned away from the door, the silence was broken by a low whisper from the lips of little Mary, saying: “one of us is sold, papa!” Like the disciples, they each asked, “is it I?” Morning found them undisturbed, and Mary hurried the work over, and, as usual, left the cabin for the cotton-field, repeating in her mind, “is it I?” So excited was her mind that she had spent a sleepless night, and so conscious was she that she was the victim (from reading in the eye of the Carolinian his predominating passions) that when she left the house she kissed her child, and pressed it against her bosom as though she would crush it to death. Reluctantly she closed the door, and departed to return no more forever.

The husband's ears were made sad at noon, when a slave boy said to him, as he called him to the gate, “your wife is sold to ‘South Carolina!’ I saw her chained in the gang, and the last words I heard her say, was, ‘O! that I never had seen a husband! O! that I had hugged my child to death this morning!’” But the child's inquiry and the father's answer, will show, whether or not, humanity was extinct in them.

Air—The Infant's Dream.

CHILD.

O, where has mother gone, papa?

What makes you look so sad?
Why sit you here alone, papa?
Has any one made you mad?
O, tell me, tell me, dear papa,
Has master punished you again?
Shall I go bring the salt papa,
To rub your back and cure the pain?

FATHER.

Go 'way my child, you are too bad;
You notice things too soon;
Did you not see that I was sad
When I came home at noon?
Go to the gate and call mamma,
And see if she's in sight.
The hour is late—I fear your ma
Will not be home to-night.

CHILD.

O, no, papa, I am afraid
To go to the gate alone:
I fear there's men in the high-grass laid,
To catch little Mary Jones.
But what makes mother stay so long?
'Tis getting very late,
Pa-pa, go bring my mother home,
And I'll stay at the gate.

When mother left me early this morn,
She kissed me and she wept;

I saw the tears come trickling down
Upon the pillow where I slept.
She pressed me up to her bosom hard,
As though it was the last embrace,
She sobbed, but did not say a word,
Nor would she let me see her face.

FATHER.

Pull off your shoes my dearest child,
And say your evening prayer;
And go to your bed and after a while
Perhaps your mother will be there.
Go hush those little eyes to sleep,
And dream some pretty dream to-night;
Perhaps in the morning when you wake
You'll find all things are right.

CHILD.

O! tell me, papa! don't drive me away—
'Tis dark! the stars are thick and bright
Is mother sold? O, tell me I pray!
I fear she'll not be home, to-night.
O, come, papa, come, go with me,
Perhaps we'll meet her in the lane,
And then she'll sing a song to me,
And take me in her arms again.

FATHER.

Come here, my daughter, come to me,
I find that I must tell you true,

Come now and sit upon my knee—
The dismal tale I'll tell to you.
Your mother's “sold”—she's sold, my dear;
Her face you'll see no more;
Her cheering voice no more you'll hear
On this side Canaan's peaceful shore.

CHILD.

O, tell me, papa, when mother dies,
Will she come home again?
Or will we meet above the skies,
Where Christ the Savior reigns?
Would you not like to die to-night,
If mother too would die?
And with sweet angels dressed in white,
Meet her above the sky?

FATHER.

O yes, my child, my life is dear,
And you I love full well;
But I no longer can tarry here,
I soon will bid this world farewell.
I cannot live, my heart is broke,
My grief is more than I can bear;
This very strap and that great oak
Will end my life in deep despair.

THE SON'S REFLECTIONS.

[_]

Air—Old Folks at Home.

'Way down upon the Mobile river,
Close to Mobile Bay,
There's where my thoughts are running ever,
All through the live-long day.
There I've a good and kind old mother,
Though she is a slave,
There I've a sister and a brother,
Lying in their peaceful graves.

Oh! could I some how or other,
Drive these tears away;
When I think about my poor old mother,
Down upon the Mobile Bay.

O! could I see that old fence corner,
Where she used to pray,
Though master laid the lash upon her,
Driving her abruptly away.
There often while we all were sleeping,
Free from every care,
You can find my poor old mother weeping,
Sending up her anxious prayer.